


And May Flowers Too

by Keesha



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 22:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11091321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keesha/pseuds/Keesha
Summary: Fete des Mousquetaires Challenge - April flowers bring May flowers. A rainy day and our four heroes. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to the lovely, hard working Mountain Cat who suffers my mistakes and corrects them without complaint.

Chapter 1  
Treville reined in his emotions and tried once again to reason with his monarch. “It’s really a very nasty day to have lunch outdoors. I’m sure your Majesty and his distinguished guests would be much more comfortable in the dining hall.” 

The King of France was standing at one of the palace windows, staring with what appeared to be fascination at the rain as it soaked the formal gardens below. “Do you know what my mother used to say, Treville?”

“No, Sire,” he answered, trying very hard not to let an exasperated sigh escape his lips.

Spinning around to face the Captain of his musketeers, he grinned. “She said April showers bring May flowers!”

“Very poetic,” Treville acknowledged, trying to keep all traces of sarcasm out of his reply. He silently promised he would reward himself with a huge glass of cognac when he returned to the garrison. He’d earned it keeping his patience this morning.

“And so, to honor my mother and the first day of May, we shall eat lunch, in the garden, amongst the flowers.” Clapping his hands in glee, he turned back to the window once more. “It will be perfect.”

The palace’s head chef, who was also in the chamber, looked at Treville in desperation, begging him with his eyes to make the King see reason. How was he supposed to serve an elegant lunch outside, in the garden, in the rain? The musketeer could only shrug with sympathy at the capaciousness of their monarch. 

The cook and the Captain turned their gazes upon the Cardinal, wondering if he might help dissuade the King of his idea. However, the prelate, as was his style, was only concerned with extracting himself from the awkward event the King was planning. 

“It is a pity,” the Cardinal solemnly intoned with a little sniff, “that I shall not be able to attend your garden soirée. But I fear it is best for my health, with this cold, to stay indoors and away from your guests.”

The King swiveled from the window to glance over at the First Minister of France, who managed to arrange his face in a sickly, yet pious, expression. “Of course, you are right, Cardinal. You should return to your bed and nurse that cold. Wouldn't want it getting any worse. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You honor me, your Majesty,” Richelieu replied with a small bow and another sniffle for good measure. “I shall be sorry to miss what I’m sure will be a most engaging event.”

When the King turned his back to look out the window at the showers once more, the Cardinal glanced over at Treville, a triumphant smirk playing about his lips. Treville scowled in return though both men quickly schooled their features when the King turned around. 

“Your musketeers, Treville, will hold a canopy over the table as we dine,” the King declared with total confidence his bizarre orders would be followed. 

Caught totally by surprise, the Captain blurted out, “They’ll what?”

A small frown appeared on King Louis face. “Has something gone wrong with your hearing, Treville?” 

Behind the King’s back, the Cardinal’s face was laced with an ear to ear grin.

“Your men, Treville, will hold the canopy over our heads as we dine amongst the Palace’s May flowers.”

The cognac was going to be well-earned it appeared as Treville forced his voice to remain calm and reasonable yet again. “That is an interesting idea, but wouldn't you rather eat in the pavilion. It’s still outdoors but possesses a nice solid roof to keep the rain at bay.”

“Treville, you miss the point.” Annoyed, the King moved over to stand in front of his Captain. “The objective is to admire the May flowers…brought on…by the April showers,” Louis said, emphasizing the phrases. 

“I believe one can see the flowers from the pavilion,” Treville tried tactfully to counter, but the King’s expression showed he wasn't pleased by the Captain’s seeming unwillingness to buy into the premise of his garden party. 

Modulating his tone so it was low and slow, Louis talked to the Captain of his musketeers as if he were a small child. “We will eat in the garden, amongst the flowers, with your musketeers holding a canopy over our person.”

Treville gave a small, contrite bow to show he had heard the commands of his King, though he still offered a slight modification to the King’s grand plan. “Are you sure, your Majesty, it wouldn't be better for the Red Guard to hold up the canopy? If my musketeers are holding the poles, their hands will be otherwise occupied, should the need arise to draw their weapons to protect you.”

“It’s a garden party, Treville. In the confines of the palace grounds. Who would dare launch an attack?” the King declared as if it were the silliest thing he’d ever heard.

You’d be surprised, Treville thought to himself, but wisely did not utter it aloud. Instead, he offered a nod of his head to show he understood. 

“Good. The musketeers will hold up the canopy. The Red Guards will do whatever they normally do,” Louis said with a clap of his hands. “There. That’s settled.” Focusing his sights on his head chef, Pierre, he said, “Come, walk with me. Let’s discuss what I wish to be served.” 

With that, the King and the cook moved away to an alcove where the King could recite his desires leaving Treville and the Cardinal alone.

“Please be sure nothing unseemly occurs at his Majesty’s garden party today, Treville. I’d hate for our royal visitors to leave with a poor impression of France. After all, we are hoping to seal the deal on some lucrative trade agreements.”

Once again, a silent thought crossed the Captain’s mind in regards to how much wealth would find its way into the Cardinal’s personal coffers from these so-called lucrative trade deals.

“How unfortunate you will not be able to attend the King’s luncheon, due to your illness. Are you not afraid that you will miss some piece of vital information?” Treville taunted his long-time nemesis. 

“Don’t be silly Treville. Now that I know of this slight change of plans, I shall be sure that all the treaties are signed before this fateful luncheon. Mustn't leave anything of such importance to chance.” With a sardonic sneer and a swish of his red cloak, the Cardinal turned away and headed off to make sure the King couldn't derail his carefully laid plans. Treville was right. France, as well as he, was in a position to make a handsome profit from this deal. He wasn't going to take any chance that his Majesty's ill-advised garden party would affect his own plans.

Treville stood alone in the palace room for a few minutes thinking about what he was sure was going to be an ill-fated event. His musketeers, holding up a canopy, in the rain, amongst the flowers, while the King and his guests dined on whatever the King had dreamt up… what could possibly go wrong?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
He slammed the flat of his hand down on his desk top causing the wooden surface to vibrate and a small avalanche of papers to scatter across its scarred top adding to his annoyance. “This is not a debate.”

“But won’t it be hard, to draw our weapons, if we are holding…poles?” 

“Athos, what part of this-is-not-a-debate escaped you?” 

“I wasn't debating. I was simply…discussing…tactics,” the swordsman replied with a perfectly straight face that the Captain had to admire. He wished he could appear that calm and cool when being riled by the King and Cardinal. 

“I realize this is not an ideal situation…”

Porthos snorted as d’Artagnan blurted out, “This is the stupidest idea I have heard of. A garden party, in the rain, where the men sworn to protect you are forced to stand around holding up a canopy.” 

All the eyes in the room, swiveled to focus on their youngest, who had the decency to duck his head a little as he muttered, “I’m not debating either. Simply stating facts.”

“Thank you for your fact-stating, d’Artagnan.” Treville’s tone was dripping so heavily with sarcasm that the farm boy turned musketeer blushed. 

“With half the garrison down with illness and many out of town on real missions, we are a bit short handed for such an assignment. I don’t suppose the Red Guard would be available to support the canopy?” Athos asked refocusing the captain’s attention on himself and away from his protégée.

“You don’t think I already posed that question? The King has declared that the Red Guards will do, whatever the Red Guards do, and the musketeers will hold the canopy and protect him.”

“Seems a little short sighted,” Aramis remarked without much thought. When he felt the eyes of his captain boring into him he hastily added, “Not that, of course, I’m questioning his Majesty's divine judgement.” It was pretty clear by the expression on the Captain's face he hadn't exonerated himself so he simply went with the adage that silence is golden.

Treville let his eyes slide over to Porthos. “Would you like to add anything?”

Porthos put on an ear to ear grin as if he’d been told he was a rich man and never had to work again in his life. “No sir. I’d love to do my duty by standing in the pouring rain, holding a pole, protecting distinguished men and women while they eat in the palace gardens.”

“Amongst the flowers,” Aramis murmured under his breath.

Treville had to clamp down on the smile that was trying to escape his lips. “I’m glad at least one of you lot understands the meaning of duty.” Turning to face his lieutenant, he continued. “Athos, round up the men and head to the palace and figure out how the hell we are going to do this successfully.”

“Do we need to bring a canopy? Or will the King be supplying one?” Athos deadpanned, looking every bit like a Comte contemplating a routine dinner party. 

Finally, Treville gave in and scrubbed a weary hand over his face. “Look, I don’t like this anymore than your four, but it is our duty to protect the King and obey his commands, no matter how…unorthodox they may seem. I suggest you prepare yourself for the worse and pray it goes better. Now off.”

The four walked out of the Captain’s office, quietly shutting the door behind them. 

“This is the stupidest thing I have ever heard of,” d’Artaganan claimed as he trotted down the stairs.

“Yes, I suppose it is considering your vast experience here over the last, let’s see, seven months, is it?” Aramis claimed sweetly as he followed his brethren towards the stables.

“Eight months. I have been here eight months.”

“I stand corrected. Porthos? Where are you going?” Aramis queried as the streetfighter veered off.

“Get my hat. And our rain cloaks. It’s gonna be a wet one.”

“I don’t have a hat,” d’Artagnan noted a bit forlornly.

“Don’t worry,” Aramis said cheerfully as he clapped an arm around the boy’s shoulder. “Your hair could use a good scrubbing and this rain is just the ticket.”

Athos headed off to gather the rest of the musketeers slated for this assignment, while Aramis and d’Artagnan headed into the barn to alert the stable boys of the their pending departure. 

Not much later, they were ready and headed out the gates into the sloppy streets of Paris. Even with hats and cloaks, all were uncomfortably damp by the time they reached the palace proper. Athos, as their leader, did his best to set a serious tone, as if this was just another routine assignment, but internally he was dreading all the things that could go wrong. No matter how stupid the assignment, Athos didn't like the regiment being put in a negative light in the King’s eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
Athos wasn't sure who in the Palace engineered this monstrosity; he supposed the King had staff to provide whatever was required. If he ever met the designer he couldn't decide if he would punch him or kick him first. One thing was certain, he'd definitely hurt the idiot that designed this ill-fated contraption laying on the ground in front of him. First of all it was an eye sore, striped, like a wandering minstrel's pants. The word that came to mind was gaudy. Material a well-respected draper never would have purchased and a shyster would have snapped up and sold to a fool for a handsome profit, claiming it was the height of fashion. Not that Athos was inferring his King was a fool, exactly, merely his fashion advisor.

To each of the four corners, a solid pole had been attached. A quick examination of the craftsmanship showed at least someone was good at their trade. It appeared both neat and functional. The four poles appeared impressively stout, and heavy, which might come to be a detriment rather than a bonus. Couching down, he stripped off his glove and ran the materials of the canopy through his fingers. The frown on his face deepened as he let the canvas slide through calloused hands and debated the waterproofness of this striped monstrosity. Rising, he saw his three brothers eyeing him in expectation. 

The thundercloud look on Porthos’ face side it all. “This is not what I signed up for,” he grumbled.

As he pulled his glove back on, Athos declared, “You swore to serve and protect your King.” His eyes wandered over the gaudy striped material once more. “You are serving our King today, albeit in a somewhat unusual manner.”

“Yeah. Unusual. Next, we’ll be the ones opening the doors for him and fetching his slippers,” d’Artagnan griped, never having imagined he’d be holding up a canopy as a King’s musketeer. 

“Maybe walking behind the Cardinal, making sure his cloak doesn't get caught.”

“Turning down his Majesty’s bed. Filling his bath and scenting it with rose petals.” A cocked eyebrow from Porthos had d’Artagnan adding, “Well I mean if Kings do such things

As d’Artagnan and Porthos continued to banter, seeing who could come up with the most outrageous idea, Athos looked about to see why Aramis hadn't joined the fray. It was not like him to miss a good banter session. He noted that the marksman had positioned himself so he could peer through an archway. Strolling up behind the unsuspecting Aramis, Athos dropped a firm arm over the marksman’s shoulders and forcibly turned him away from the opening and marched him back to where the rest of the musketeers were standing near the canopy.

“I think you’d be better served focusing your attentions over here,” Athos hissed in Aramis’ ear as he dragged him away from staring at her Majesty, who’d been beyond the archway. “There is less to get in trouble with…I think.”

“I know, but I…”

Athos quickly cut off his brother before he could finish his statement. “It’s not to be!” The swordsman’s tone was low and dangerous. “You risk much for your folly.” He cuffed Aramis on the ear before dropping his arm. “We'll not talk of this anymore.” 

Angrily, Athos strode off towards the far side of the canopy leaving Aramis standing near Porthos and d’Artagnan. 

“Great. You've made him mad,” Porthos remarked as he watched Athos across the room. “As if this assignment weren't bad enough already, you have to piss him off. What did you say?”

His other brothers weren't aware of his indiscretion with the queen, so Aramis shrugged and glibly replied, “A simple difference of opinion.”

Porthos’ expression showed he didn't buy into that explanation, but Athos calling the musketeers to attention ended the conversation for the moment.

Never one to ask his men to do what he didn't, Athos took up position by one of the four poles, before instructing Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan to man the others. “We’ll rotate. Four on the poles, four off. After an hour we will change positions, carefully.” The four musketeers not assigned to hold the poles spread out through the gardens to serve as watchers.

“Are you sure you want me to hold one of these poles?” Aramis questioned. “Won’t my talents be put to better use if my hands were free to, oh I don’t know, say fire my musket?”

Athos and Aramis stared at each other for a moment, before Athos vehemently spat, “No.”

With a sigh, Aramis bent over, wrapped his hands around the wooden pole and stood it upright, dragging a portion of the canopy off the ground. Porthos and d’Artagnan did the same and Athos grabbed the one near his feet and hefted it aloft. Sluggishly, the gaudy striped material rose from the ground hanging limply between the four poles.

It took a concentrated effort to maneuver the twenty by twenty-foot canopy out of the palace room and across the courtyard in the rain to the gardens. Once outside, a fussy little man in an oilskin cloak instructed the four musketeers where to place the canopy. It was a tricky feat to stretch out the canvas over the area indicated, because while the ground in the middle was empty, awaiting a table no doubt, the outer edges of the canopy placed the pole bearers smack dab in the middle of the royal flower beds. The head gardener, also in a rain slicker, was standing at the edges of the beds, yelling at the four musketeers to be careful where they placed their muddy boots. 

The four musketeers were quickly realizing that dealing with the awkward, soggy, canvas was going to be no picnic for them. It was hard to keep the canvas stretched out taunt and the poles were hard to grip and got slippery as they got wetter. Luckily, they had some time to work out adjustments while the table and chairs were brought out and placed under the makeshift pavilion, followed by crystal wine glasses and china place settings, silver cutlery and of course vases of fresh flowers for the table. The servants scuttled between the table and the palace and soon were as bedraggled as the four musketeers stoically holding the poles. 

The rain, of course, did not cooperate and picked up in intensity. Luckily, there was no wind so it fell straight down which meant it didn't blow inside the makeshift pavilion, though it did manage to find its way down every musketeer’s collar. The four musketeers not currently holding the poles managed to find spots under the few trees in the gardens that allowed them a strategic as well as a relatively dry location to watch over the proceedings. 

Eventually, they heard sounds coming from the area of the lower Palace and trays and bowls of food were marched over to the table and set down. A few minutes later, colorful umbrellas, sheltering his Majesty and his guests appeared and made their way through the gardens over to the tent.

“Perfectly delightful don’t you think, my dear” the King asked his wife as they entered the pavilion and settled at their spots at the head of the flower feast.

The Queen, who had caught the eye of Aramis as she walked by and nearly giggled at the drops of water running off his handsome nose. Even as she murmured her agreement, she glanced down at the hem of her dress and sighed. It was covered in dirt and grass stains that she doubted would ever come out. The King and his ideas.

As dinner was served, Athos kept eyeing the canvas they were holding up. Because of the weight of it, the four musketeers were unable to keep it stretched super tight and water was beginning to puddle in the middle. If he were able to lift up the middle, say with another pole, the problem would be alleviated. Alas, that also would mean standing smack dab in the middle of the dinner table, the place currently occupied by a magnificent, multi-tiered, flower strewn cake. Athos was fairly certain that the King would not want a wet, muddied, musketeer standing as the center piece for his soiree. Another solution had to be sought.

Gesturing with his head for the musketeer on guard a few yards to his right to come over and take his pole, they carefully performed the handoff. Athos then moved cautiously through the royal flowerbeds over to where d’Artagnan was stationed.

“We need to get that water off the middle of the canvas,” Athos explained, as he discreetly pointed to the ever-lowering dip of canvas over the royal table. The younger musketeer glanced where Athos was indicating and immediately saw the issue at hand. Unless they wanted the garden party to be a total washout, they had to control when and where that water was deposited.

Treville, who, as usual, was stationed near the King, noticed his lieutenant’s movements and a mixture of curiosity and dread ran up his spine. While Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan were the best musketeers in the regiment, they were also the most trouble prone. When he had assigned Athos to work with the already established team of Aramis and Porthos, he had expected the Comte turned soldier to bring a level of decorum and stability to the team. Aramis and Porthos, though excellent soldiers, second to none, had a streak of carefree abandon to them that he thought the solemn Athos would help quell. Somehow, that had really not materialized the way he had envisioned. Yes, at times Athos tamped down the ill-advised exuberance of his peers, but just as many times he let them go on their merry way, or joined in with them, or worse of all, led them in their mischief. Perhaps he had expected more from Athos because of his upbringing and being a Comte. Athos was, perhaps mentality, more mature than the other two at times, but age-wise, they were all very close and it was his experience that young men occasionally did stupid things. So with all this in mind, he watched his lieutenant with a wary eye.

“We need to tip the canvas slightly, to get that excess water to run harmlessly off to one side. I need you to dip your pole and encourage the water to flow in this direction,” Athos instructed a none-to-pleased looking d’Artagnan.

“Won’t it end up pouring on top of my head?”

Athos had the same concern as the ex-farmer, but he wasn't going to voice it. Instead, in a confident voice he declared, “No. You will be able to angle it so it dumps beside you.”

Treville could see his two men whispering, but he couldn't hear what was being said or fathom what was so important that is had to be discussed while on guard duty in front of the King. As he was debating if he should go over there and see what the issue was, his Majesty suddenly roped him into the conversation he was having with one of his nobles, and the Captain was forced to divert his attention away from Athos and d’Artagnan and focus on his King.

Athos moved down the side of the canvas so he could monitor the situation better, and to be away from where he anticipated the water would flow over the edge. Though it wasn't cold outside, still he did not relish the thought of standing guard for the rest of the day soaking wet. Once in position, he gave a nod to d’Artagnan. Athos watched as the young man lowered his pole and angled the waterlogged canvas to dip in his direction. 

After he had been forced to hang his wife, Athos had begged and pleaded with God to punish him and send him to hell where he belonged. But no matter how many stupid things he did, God had seen fit to make him survive; a form of torture in and of itself. And on days such as this one, he came to realize that God was even crueler than he gave Him credit for, because He managed to make hell on Earth. The water obediently ran from the middle of the canvas towards the edge dipped near where d’Artagnan stood. However, just before it reached the edge, Aramis, who suffered from allergies, lost the battle to suppress the sneeze that had been tickling his nose for the last five minutes. As the marksman sneezed, his pole dipped just enough to divert the flow of the rain water so it poured over the edge on top of Athos.

To his credit, the stoic musketeer did not so much as let out a peep as the water streamed on his head, over his hat and worked itself inside his rain slicker soaking him. While D’Artagnan had a look of horror on his face, Aramis and Porthos looked amused. 

Sputtering, d’Artagnan tried to apologize, but Athos glared him into silence. They were on guard duty and shouldn't attract any attention. Looking up under the sodden brim of his hat, his eyes sought out Treville, who, with that six sense he had for his men’s antics, managed to glance at Athos just in time to see the water fall. The Captain was wearing an interesting expression between a smirk and a scowl. However, Athos had no illusions that his Captain would tolerate any further disturbance to the garden party. 

As Athos let his eyes wander over the rest of the guests, it appeared the little water mishap had gone unnoticed by all, well other than their Captain. Checking out the center of the canvas, he could see it was sagging again, no surprise given the steadiness of the rain. As the last effort was not a responding success, he modified his strategy. Finding his three brothers watching him, as he knew he would, he indicated for Aramis and Porthos to dip the side between them, while he and d’Artagnan adjusted their poles ever so slightly to steer the stream. Nice as could be, the water streamed off the canvas, splashing harmlessly down the side. 

A small smile of satisfaction tugged at the corner of Athos’ face. They had beaten mother-nature. 

For the next hour, things went smoothly and the guests seemed to enjoy the impromptu waterfall every so often, saying it added to the ambiance. Then what appeared to be a slight miscalculation had the rain water splashing very close to Porthos, who didn't appreciate his leathers getting splattered with mud. He glared suspiciously at Aramis who was looking a bit to smug for his taste. No talking was allowed during guard duty and they were too far apart anyway so Porthos could only scowl at Aramis. At his end, Athos could only glare at all of them trying to keep them in line. Apparently, their famous six-sense communication did not extend itself to matters that were not life or death. 

Over the course of the next hour, the silent water battle raged on, with each one of them getting wet, and Athos was getting very disturbed at the antics of his brethren. The King and his guests seemed unaware of the tom-foolery afoot and actually invented a quick drinking game based on guessing where the water would cascade next. Treville, on the other hand was sure something was up, especially since his second refused to meet his eye. 

As the May flower party drew into its third hour, Athos’ temper had frayed to the breaking point. He was wet, cold, tired, hungry and incredibly annoyed at his brothers. They had even lost their ability to switch out on the poles because the Queen and the ladies of the garden party had wisely departed for the comforts of the indoors taking four of the musketeer guard with them. Unfortunately, Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan were left outside, holding the poles and watching over the increasingly drunk King and his guests. Treville valiantly tried to get the King to move his soiree inside but to no avail. 

Finally, when the wind picked up and the thunder and lightning began, the King agreed they should head inside, but he ordered the four musketeers to stay in place until the staff had a chance to bring all the china and such inside as he didn't want it to get ruined. The fact that the musketeers had to stay out in the increasingly poor conditions didn’t seem to bother his Majesty. The Captain tried to reason with the King, explaining the dishes, glasses, tablecloths and serving pieces had to be washed anyway, but the King gave him the ‘I am the King and am not amused’ look and Treville was forced to make a small bow and acquiesce to the command. The four musketeers watched as umbrella laden servants bought the King and his guests safely and drily back into the palace while they were left to stand in the ever-increasing downpour. The wind kept increasing in intensity until the very trees themselves began to bend under its force. 

It became impossible to hold the canopy aloft in the high winds. D’Artagnan could feel the wet, slippery, wooden pole being pulled through his gloved hands and there was nothing he could do about it. 

“Watch out,” he screamed as a strong gust of wind ripped the pole from his grasp.

The wooden projectile flew in the direction of Porthos, striking him across the head, neck and shoulders. Porthos dropped to the ground like a stone and, as he fell, let go of the pole he was holding. The furious wind latched on to the soggy canvas like it was a sail and suddenly Athos and Aramis, who had managed to maintain their grasp on their poles, found themselves being lifted aloft. The gigantic make-shift kite lifted the two musketeers into the sky and they flew down the length of the palace gardens. 

Startled by the situation they found themselves in, Athos and Aramis weren’t sure whether to hang on tight or drop to the ground. The decision was soon removed from them as their kite got entangled in a stand of trees and their journey came to a crashing halt. Both men were slammed into the branches of the oak tree where they got entangled with the canvas before before plummeting toward the hard ground. 

Back in the main section of the garden, D’Artagnan sprinted over to where Porthos was slumped on the ground. Dropping to his knees next to the prone soldier, d’Artagnan reached out shaky fingers to check for a pulse. The amount of blood already covering the wounded musketeer's face was scary. However, to his relief, his questing fingertips found a very steady rhythm. Rocking back on his heels, the young musketeer was debating what to do next when he heard a sound that made his blood freeze. The wind began to make a roaring sound that he had heard twice before in his life and each time it had signaled the approach of death. 

Lifting his eyes to the skies, he saw the dark mass of twisting clouds heading towards the Palace. Tornado! 

Scrambling to his feet he shouted a warning to the people who were still in the garden cleaning up. He was having a hard time making himself heard over the increasingly loud roaring of the wind so he grabbed the arm of a servant near him and pointed him towards the oncoming storm. The stack of dishes in the servant’s hands crashed to the dirt when he saw the twisting mass heading towards them. Suddenly, everyone’s attention was focused on the approaching storm and screams began to fill the air. 

D’Artagnan shook the servant he still held in his grasp to get him to focus. “Run. To the palace. Warn them to get everyone to safety in the cellars.” With a final shake, he sent the servant hurdling towards the palace. The rest of the servants who were still in the garden were already running towards safety. Too late, d’Artagnan realized he was left alone with the unconscious Porthos and no one to help him get the big man to safety. Looking worriedly around him, he couldn’t see any sign of Athos, Aramis or the canopy and though that troubled him, he knew he had to get Porthos inside the palace. 

Grunting with effort, d’Artagnan gripped Porthos under his armpits and began hauling him across the ground toward the palace. The heels of the musketeer’s boots left trowel marks through the bed of flowers that made d’Artagnan grimace, but there was no time to find a better way. The destructive twirling mass of wind was drawing ever nearer. His hair was being whipped about his head by the gale force winds like a horse’s tail swishing flies, and large pieces of hail began raining down upon him in a most unpleasant manner. With a determined moan, he tried to increase his pace but Porthos was not a light load and, unconscious and unable to help, he seemed twice his normal weight.

When he was a few yards from the door, it was flung open and Treville stumbled out into the storm. The Captain made his way over to d’Artagnan and Porthos.

“The King?” the loyal musketeer asked of his Captain. 

Even given their dire situation, Treville could not help being proud for a moment that the boy thought of his duty first. “His Majesty and his guests are safe in the cellars.” Glancing over d’Artagnan's shoulder to let his blue eyes sweep the gardens he inquired, “Athos? Aramis?”

“Not with you?” d’Artagnan shouted reply begged for affirmation even though he knew the answer had to be no.

“No.”

Both men’s eyes drifted out to the demonic weather hoping against all odds to see the two missing men, but they were disappointed. The storm was almost hypnotizing and finally Treville tore his eyes away from it.

“They will be fine. We need to get Porthos to shelter and see to his wounds.”

Reluctantly, d’Artagnan nodded, forcing his gaze away from searching for his missing brothers. The two musketeers put their shoulders under Porthos’ arms and lifted the injured musketeer from the ground. Slowly, they dragged him into the palace and down the flights of stairs to the secure cellar. Gently placing him to rest under a lit sconce, Treville headed off to find the palace healer, leaving a worried d’Artagnan to watch over the unconscious man. 

D’Artagnan knew he’d made the right choice, bringing his brother to safety, but his heart was having a hard time remaining calm wondering what was happening with his other two brothers.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
Aramis woke with a sharp pain shooting through his leg that was so intense it momentarily blocked out all the other complaints being registered by other body parts. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he quickly identified what the issue was when a tree branch, protruding from his thigh floated into view. Already, the material of his pants around the wound was red with blood and the medic prayed the stick hadn’t punctured his femoral artery. 

Struggling to a fully seated position without jarring his leg wasn’t easy, but he managed to do it. From his new height, he was able to see the area around him. The canvas of the canopy was flapping wildly in the roaring winds, trapped in the trees surrounding him. Cherry-sized balls of ice lay scattered on the grass about him and he deduced it must have hailed during the brief time he’d been unconscious. With a low groan, he wasn’t able to stifle, he rotated his torso so he could see further about him. He had no clue where Athos was, but considering the ride both men had shared and the abrupt halt, he doubted the stoic musketeer was any better off. The rains, which had picked up in intensity, were not helping his visual search. Twice he called out his brother’s name, but the wind tore the sounds from his cracked lips and scattered them. There was no sign of the palace leading Aramis to believe their journey had taken them away from the palace and any sort of outside aid.

Scanning about again, Aramis let his eyes raise to the horizon and suddenly his blood ran cold and his breath hitched in his throat. A dark, twisty mass appeared. A tornado. The marksman had never seen one before, but he had heard tales of them and the destruction they wrought. Suddenly, time was of the essence. He had to find Athos and get them to shelter.

Ripping the blue sash from about his waist, he made a make-shift tourniquet on his thigh above the entry point of the branch. Twisting it tight, he prayed it would hold that way for it might be the only thing between him and death. Flicking the sodden curls out of his eyes, he forced himself to study the stick protruding from his upper thigh. If his judgment was correct, it probably had about three inches embedded in his tender flesh. Gritting his teeth and knowing what he had to do, he firmly grasped the wooden stake and pulled it out. His howl of pain was lost in the howling of the wind. The freed branch fell woodenly from his fingers as he panted and tried not to allow the dark dots circling in front of his eyes from becoming a curtain and pulling him under. 

Shaking his head slightly, which was definitely a mistake, he pushed back the pain and wound another piece of his sash over the freely bleeding wound. He was happy to note that the pressure of the cloth seemed to slow the bleeding. As he took a deep breath of relief, another injury made itself known as his ribs throbbed. Bruised or cracked his hoped, not broken though only time and a proper examination would tell. 

Lightening ripped through the skies and the winds grew ever more intense as the skies began to be cast in an eerie green light. Realizing there was no time to lose, Aramis gritted his teeth and shakily climbed to his feet, stumbling and leaning heavily on a nearby tree to stay upright. He cast his eyes about him again, with no luck in finding his missing friend.   
“Please God, where is he,” Aramis prayed reverently to his Maker. And his prayers were answered, though not necessarily in the manner he expected. 

The skies darkened, the wind roared through the trees, and hail began to pound the earth once again. Flashes of lightening lit the skies and it was in this visual spectacle that he finally spotted Athos. The musketeer must have been caught up in the branches above Aramis’ head for suddenly, the swordsman's body plunged to the Earth from what appeared to be the heavens. The body hit the ground with a sickening thud, and Aramis’ heart dropped to his knees in fright. Athos’ right shoulder caught on the edge of a large tree branch and the medic could practically hear it being ripped from its socket

“Athos!,” Aramis screamed above the winds, but the body on the ground lay motionless.

Without heed for his own injures, Aramis scrambled over to his fallen brother’s side. Athos was lying on his right-side in the dirt, eyes shut, his lashes dark against his pale cheeks and a thin trickle of blood escaping from the corner of his mouth. Gently, Aramis rolled the unconscious man unto his back, which, unexpectedly cause the green eyes to flutter open, close, then open wide as a scream was ripped from the wounded man’s throat. 

Aramis’ quickly clasped his brother’s hand. “It is alright, mon ami. You are hurt, but I am here.”

The medic musketeer wasn’t sure if Athos was even registering his presence as the lieutenant fought through his pain and struggled to sit up. Knowing from past history that trying to get Athos to lie still was more detrimental than helpful, Aramis carefully helped the swordsman to sit. Instinctively, Athos left hand reached over and cradled the elbow of his right arm.

“You have wrenched your shoulder out of its socket, Athos.”

Finally, the green eyes stopped darting about and focused on Aramis, who smiled to try to reassure the other. The hint of a smile pulled at the bloodstained left corner of Athos’ mouth, until his left forearm, accidently pressed against the swordsman's ribs. Athos reeled in pain, turned his head and vomited. Tears streamed from his eyes as the violent motion aggravated every injury on his body. Fortunately, he passed out again and Aramis made sure to adjust Athos’ head so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit. 

Raising his eyes to the horizon, Aramis realized they had little time left to seek shelter from the approaching tornado. With an apology, he grasped Athos’ bad shoulder. The pain of his touch forced his brother awake once more. Green eyes sought out his in desperation, not understanding how the man that professed to be his brother could treat him in such a manner. 

“I’m sorry, Athos. But we need to move. Now. And I can’t do it without your help.”

Comprehension swept through his green eyes as Athos noted Aramis, too, was injured. As he went to nod to indicate he understood, the edges of his eyesight dimmed once more and his head throbbed so badly that he thought his brain would explode. Unconsciously reaching up a hand to his head, he touched a wet mass under the edge of his hair. His fingers came back tinged with red which the rain quickly leeched away. 

“Let me see,” Aramis demanded, leaning forward but Athos raised a hand to block him.

“It will keep. We need to move. Can you stand?” the swordsman queried, not so sure how he would answer the same question asked of him. 

“Yes. Barely.” As if to prove his statement true, Aramis lurched to his feet, though he did lean heavily on the tree next to him. Reaching down, he grabbed Athos’ left hand and helped haul the injured musketeer upwards. 

Athos made it to his feet, barely, and it was a shaky few seconds whether he would pass out. However, as his eyes rose to the horizon and saw the twisting mass, which seemed like it was heading directly at them, he suddenly got an adrenaline surge which kept him conscious. Thinking back to anything he’d ever read on tornados, he knew their best hope for survival was underground. But there didn’t seem to be anything in their immediate surroundings and he doubted either of them, wounded, was going to make it far. 

It took a moment for him to figure out they were at the far ends of the palace grounds, in the grove of trees near the Seine. Where could they seek shelter? Underground. Near the river? 

“The ice house!” he shouted at Aramis. 

Catherine de Medici had a fondness for ice cream and an ice house was built near the Seine to store frozen blocks of ice to be used during the course of the year. In order for it not to melt, the storage facility had been dug deep into the Earth where it was cooler and away from the melting rays of the sun. Now, if they could only locate and reach it before the winds swept them away. 

Using each other for support, the two musketeers made their way through the woods in what they hoped was the direction of the river. One didn’t get to be a musketeer with a bad sense of direction and they soon broke the tree line and spotted the Seine. It took a few minutes in the storm, using the lightning flashes for beacons to determine where they were in relationship to the ice house; luckily, they were not far away.

Stumbling across the open ground between the forest and the ice cave, the wind swept the two musketeers’ off their feet and tumbled them like litter across the grass. Athos screamed with pain as his displaced shoulder slammed into the dirt and he was rolled like a child’s ball across the grass. Aramis’ wounded leg felt no better as he too was tossed about. 

When the wind let up for a few minutes, the two men dragged themselves to their knees and crawled the last few yards to the icehouse. Athos slumped over on his left side, knowing he didn’t have the strength to wrench open the door to the underground structure. He prayed Aramis did.

Aramis forced his abused body to its knees and then stood. Bracing against the wind that was trying to sweep him away, he reached down and grasped the rusty iron ring on the wooden door and heaved with all his might. The hinges creaked as the door slowly rose, but the noise was overshadowed by the winds' shrieks. The door got about half-way open and then it slowly came to a halt. Despite all Aramis’ efforts, he could not get it open any further. 

Aramis motioned with his head for Athos to crawl through the opening, but the swordsman knew that Aramis would not be able to get through himself unless the door was fully open. Athos forced his body over to the door, half walking, half crawling. When he got to the partially open door, he pitched himself forward, into the wooden planks, forcing the door the rest of the way open until it lay against the dirt. Had he been thinking a bit more clearly, he would have warned Aramis to let go of the door because the marksman was also flung to the dirt by the maneuver. 

The action also overbalanced Athos, who staggered and fell down the stairs into the icy cavern below. Somehow, the twisting and jarring of hitting step after step caused his right shoulder to be forcibly jerked back into its socket, though the accompanying pain was so great, that Athos slide across the dirt floor and into the blocks of ice where he lay, unconscious.

Aramis rolled on his back and saw the tail of the twister nearly upon him. Scrambling to his knees, he grabbed the handle of the door on the inside, and jerked it closed using his full body weight. He tumbled backwards down the stairs and found himself on the ground near his unresponsive brother. Flashes of lightning worked their ways through the cracks in the wooden door as the twister tried to grasp the door with its coiled fingers and pry it open. But though the door flapped open a few heart-terrifying times, it always shut once more. Aramis sat there, in the darkness between the flashes, praying like he’d never done before, asking for their deliverance from this devil-spawned storm. 

While in reality it didn’t take long for the twister to pass by, to Aramis it seemed like eternity. Finally, the hail stopped pounding on the wooden doors, the lightning ceased and the winds dropped off to a gentle breeze. Aramis crossed himself in the dark as he ended his prayer vigil. 

Remembering from when he and the other musketeers had been called upon to help stock the icehouse, he carefully climbed to his feet and felt his way over to a shelf where he recalled candles had been stored. Finding and lighting one, he placed it on the ground at the base of the stairs before he painfully made his way up them towards the closed door. 

When he reached the top, he pressed on the panels, but they remained stubbornly closed, and it didn’t take long for him to figure out something on the outside was keeping them shut. Given the winds, it was probably a downed tree. 

Making his way back to where Athos lay unmoving, he lit a second candle he had secured, placed the two candles on the ground near the injured man and began his examination. He was amazed when he discovered the tumble down the stairs had corrected the shoulder displacement, though he hoped his brother had been unconscious by that point for surely it had to have caused tremendous pain. Unbuttoning the black leather jacket, he felt down Athos’ ribcage, coming to the conclusion none were broken to the point of being a danger to the lungs. The bloody knot on the back of the head surely indicated a concussion, but as Athos had been awake and lucid, he was not overly worried. The fun part would come later when the swordsman was forced to remain inactive to allow the concussion to heal. Athos was never a good patient.

Moving the candles, he examined his own wounds and was pleased to see the puncture wound on the leg, for all the movement it had undergone, was barely seeping, indicting the artery must have been spared. Both he and Athos would be scratched, battered and bruised, but they would survive this ordeal. Well, assuming they found a way out of this icehouse. But for the moment, they were safe.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
“This feels like an act of desperation,” Porthos groused to d’Artagnan as they sat upon their horses in the stable yard. “We should be out searching ourselves.”

“We have been. For three days. We are desperate. If they are hurt seriously, they might not have much more time,” d’Artagnan answered though his eyes remained on the two dogs sitting in the dirt, awaiting their master’s commands. 

“I don’t know,” Porthos said as he eyed the dogs. Where he grew up dogs were usually competitors for food, and a danger if you came across a pack. They were not useful things, though he did admit his perspective was skewed by his upbringing.

Finally, the dog master came out of the kennel and walked over to d’Artagnan. “You have the items.” 

The musketeer reached back and patted his worn leather saddlebags. 

“Good, keep them there until I ask for them.” With that, the kennel master mounted up, called his two dogs to heel and started off. 

They went around the palace until they came to the gardens, still in disrepair from the storm. Here, the master dismounted and collected the two items from d’Artaganan, well-worn shirts from Athos and Aramis. He offered the items to the two dogs who drank deep of the scents before the master issued the command for them to scout the area. The two red dogs took off in a methodical manner, sniffing amongst the picnic remains.

Mounting, the kennel master moved his horse closer to Porthos and d’Artagnan’s mounts. “This is a long shot you realize given the elapsed time and rain.”

“You mean like an act of desperation,” Porthos growled looking over at d’Artagnan.

Realizing that he may have sounded harsher than he intended, the dog master back pedaled. “These two dogs, though, they might be the ticket. Unusual. Bought for their coat color more than anything. I’d not seen a red poodle before. Freak of nature I suppose, but they have proven to be surprisingly good scenters. I’ve seen this pair find birds lost in the tall grass that all the other dogs missed.”

Porthos looked at the red poodles in a new light. Freaks of nature. He’d been called that and yet he had value. Maybe he was being too harsh on the idea. “Given the direction of the wind that day, I’d say we head them towards the forest and the river,” Porthos declared, trying to be accepting and useful. “Not, that we haven’t already searched there,” he mumbled under his breath, momentarily forgetting his vow.

The triad of horses and riders and the two dogs headed in the direction of the woods. The two poodles ran out in front of the horses, sniffing both the air and ground until they emerged from the woods on the far side near the river. Here they seemed to lose themselves for a while, running up and down the river as if they had forgotten the objective was humans not ducks. 

Finally, the kennel master called them back to his side, made them sit and asked d’Artagnan for the two dirty shirts once more. He presented them to the two wiggly-butt poodles sitting in the grass.

“I dunna. They don’t seem as well trained as the other dogs,” Porthos said skeptically as he watched the two dogs jump up, grab the shirts and prance around with them.

“Maybe they are younger,” d’Artagnan offered up.

They watched as the two mischievous poodles ran in circles with the shirts trailing in the wind, the kennel master trying to bring them to heel. Finally, the smaller of the two poodles flopped on the grass to chew on the shirt for a moment. Then, out of the blue, her head shot up and she left out a piercing bark. The second poodle dropped the shirt in his mouth and lifted his nose to the air. Like a bat out of hell, two red streaks shot across the grass heading north. 

The musketeers and the remounted kennel master took after the rapidly departing dogs who were bounding across the meadow. In sync, the two dogs slowed, dropped their noses to the ground and began scouting in a more methodical method. They came to a tree lying in the grass, sniffed it and then began furiously barking. Using their long, muscular bodies. They leapt up on the tree and over it, all while barking at the top of their lungs.

“It’s a tree,” d’Artagnan said with dismay beginning to think Porthos was right, this was a wild goose chase. “Maybe they brushed against it, but I don’t see any sign of them now.”

The two red poodles, continued their antics, much to the kennel masters chagrin. One of the dogs, who had been standing on top of the fallen tree, leapt off and began to scramble underneath the leafy tree. Clods of dirt soon were flying through the air.

“What the hell are you doing now, you scattered-brained puppies,” the kennel master sighed as he dismounted to try to corral his charges.

“I think,” d’Artagnan said as he slid off his horse, “there is something under the tree.”

Porthos, still mounted, scanned the area around him, a thought niggling at the back of his mind. Finally, it hit him. “Ice cream.”

D’Artagnan and the kennel master stopped to look at him with puzzlement. 

“Couple of winter’s ago we had to help stock the ice house that the King’s mother had built. He liked to serve ice cream to his guests, especially in the summer, to impress them.” Porthos’ eyes swept the area. “This is about where it is I think. Underground. Perfect place to shelter from a tornado. We gotta move this tree.”

Using ropes and the muscles of the horses, they got the tree out of the way revealing the door. The two once red poodles, who now had a layer of dirt covering their red paws, sat off to the sides, tongues hanging out of their mouths, waiting. Porthos grabbed the iron ring and heaved with all his might, nearly ripping the door off its hinges. Like greased lightning, the dogs rose as one and bolted down the stairs into the darkness and soon happy barks were sounding from the hole followed by weak but familiar cursing.

When light suddenly flooded their cave, Athos and Aramis were momentarily blinded. They had been conserving the candles because they weren’t sure how long it would take for someone to rescue them. They had been unable to open the doors, but weren’t quite desperate enough to try to burn their way through them. It was just as likely the fire would consume them as well as the obstruction blocking the door. They were able to melt the ice for water and after the third day without food, had been willing to snare and roast a few rodents. 

Aramis’ wound was healing nicely, showing no sign of infection and being trapped in an icehouse wasn’t all that bad for Athos’ concussion either. Though Aramis wished he had something, other than ice, to help dull the pain he knew Athos was feeling, he had to admit being captive in an icehouse was the perfect way to make Athos rest without a fight. 

Both men had been snoozing, but woke when the door banged open. They quickly closed their eyes against the light's intensity. They didn’t see, but felt the furry bodies flinging themselves on them. Instinctually, they started to try to push the unseen attackers off thinking it was wild beasts that were about to make them into a meal. Then slowly, it dawned on the two musketeers that the wild animals were actually scrubbing their faces with their tongues.

“What kind of wild animal licks your face?” Aramis asked out loud as he tried to keep the four footed fur ball of exuberance from stepping on his heeling wound.

Athos answer was a string of imaginative curses that always surprised his brothers for they wounded how one raised as a Comte in one of France’s most prestigious families had learned such language.

However, as the words floated out of the ice cellar, Porthos cheered! “Athos. I’d know that cursing anywhere.”

Soon a happy reunion was occurring outside the icehouse between the brothers while two ecstatic red poodles danced about their feet. Having not thought to bring two extra horses, Athos and Aramis were boosted into the saddles and d’Artagnan and Porthos scrambled up behind them.

“All this because the King wanted to eat in the rain in the gardens,” Porthos groused. “Royals.” 

“Now Porthos. The King was simply honoring his mother. April showers bring May flowers. He had no way of knowing they also bring tornados,” Aramis stated as he looked over at his friend.

“So April showers, bring May flowers. What do may flowers bring?” Porthos asked wondering if there was a third piece to this peculiar rhyme he hadn’t learned as a child. 

“Allergies,” d’Artagnan offered up succinctly, having suffered since he was child in the late spring and early summer.

“And pilgrims,” Athos muttered as he sat in front of d’Artagnan suffering through his headache that had been aggravated by the light, the barking poodles and now motion of the horse. “In 1620, a ship named the Mayflower sailed to the new world, with pilgrims aboard seeking religious asylum. Puritans.”

Athos stopped his history lesson when he felt all the eyes, including, he swore, the two poodles, staring at him. “It’s true.”

“And that is what you thought of when you heard that childhood rhyme?” Aramis said with disbelief.

“Just how hard did you hit your head, Athos?” Porthos asked with a small smirk.

“April showers, bring may flowers. And what do May flowers bring? Pilgrims. Maybe you are funnier than I have ever given you credit for, Athos,” Aramis declared earnestly even though his eyes were twinkling with delight. 

“Heathens,” Athos grumbled as he closed his eyes. He could hardly wait to get home to the garrison and drown his sorrows in a bottle or three of wine. He could do without April showers for the rest of his life. And May flowers, too.

THE END


End file.
